The Infatuated Fall (Johnlock)
by xZ0MBiiEx
Summary: AU. John Watson's decisions on Mary's betrayal take a different turn and lead him to realize that he was in love far before Mary Morstan ever came along. Johnlock. Co-write with Goosie-Boosie on DA. FINISHED!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Sooooo... Here it is!**  
><strong>The first chapter of my newest project which is being co-written with the wonderfullovely/amazing PonchoAndPinstripes on DA!**  
><strong>We decided to do an AU where John's decisions are... Ah, different, than the TV series of season three.<strong>  
><strong>Anyway, we sincerely hope you enjoy it! <strong>

**Please let us know what you think!**

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><p>It hadn't taken very long for John to make his decision. The flash drive had burned in his pocket and even hotter in his hand as he had prepared to view its contents. Everything inside him was torn and when he had finally viewed what the flash drive contained, he was justified in his decision. He couldn't stay at their house, where he thought they had built a home. It was a lie; everything about his relationship and his marriage was false. So, he had to return to the only place where he felt remotely safe and normal; the only other place where he had felt a warm sense of home: 221B Baker Street. John did not give his former flatmate much notice, but was almost certain that Sherlock understood the reasoning behind his move.<p>

About a week passed and John's belongings were finally settled back into the place he had called home a little more than two years ago, before everything that had happened. It felt a bit nostalgic, to be honest, and that helped him cope a little. John didn't find himself talking much, however, and he felt as though he were turning into Sherlock: solitary by choice, and rather lost in his own thoughts.

Sherlock had been exceedingly quiet the past week, following John's own silence and taking to studying John more than was usual. The detective had even been silently bringing the doctor a cup of tea now and then. He wasn't sure how to act in this situation, honestly, as he had thought from the very beginning that this whole relationship with Mary had been a bit odd. Now that the two of them had broken up and Mary had left the country (information known thanks to Mycroft) he felt a bit of a loss as to where he should begin to rebuild their friendship. Unfortunately, there had been no new cases worth Sherlock's attention, so he had more time than usual to bode on his emotional standings and how best to help the doctor settle back into things.

Shifting in his favorite chair, Sherlock dragged his feet underneath him, quietly balancing his tea cup and saucer on his lap. A rumble sounded from the detective's stomach and he frowned, noting that he hadn't eaten in four days. Neither of the men had been to do the shopping, and Sherlock sincerely doubted that there would be anything to eat in the kitchen. Sipping his tea gingerly, the detective began deducing the likelihood of dragging John out to dinner at one of their favorite Chinese restaurants, frowning as he stared off into space.

John began to sip the tea he'd been given, an occasional slurp being the only sound in the room. He sighed to himself, thinking how in this moment he'd been wanting something a little more substantial than tea. Placing his cup on the the side table next to him, he rested his chin on his hand as his eyes drifted to the ceiling in thought. Glancing at the detective every now and then, John thought to himself that the detective looked very calm, casual, and peaceful; which felt odd because on a normal day, Sherlock was none of these things. Sherlock had just reached a conclusion of 96.3 percent certainty when John's voice sounded from across the room.

"You hungry at all?"

John's voice broke the silence as he turned his gaze to the detective. Blinking in surprise at the doctor's alignment with his own thoughts, Sherlock cleared his throat before swallowing down the rest of his near-scalding tea. He set the dishes to the side before flicking his eyes to the other man, giving a short nod.

"Chinese. I'll change."

Rising from the chair, Sherlock strode past John and into his bedroom, half closing the door before throwing off his house coat and slippers. Thumbing through his wardrobe, he selected a dark navy button-up shirt and tailored black slacks. He pulled on the new clothes, buttoning and tucking in his shirt and zipping himself up, before sliding into a pair of trouser socks. John was shocked by the detective's swift response. He stared at the spot where Sherlock had just been and wondered why he had waited for John to say anything before going off to eat on his own. John knew Sherlock and food weren't best friends, however, and it was a very rare occasion that he ate unless they were out on a case or Mrs. Hudson had come up with a tray of snacks to coax the detective into eating something. Nevertheless, John slipped on his shoes and coat, sliding his phone into his pocket as Sherlock returned from his bedroom.

Sherlock cleared his throat, noting that the doctor was looking at him with an odd tilt to his head. He slid on his jacket and scarf, shoving his hands in his pockets as he turned to look at John. He really wasn't sure how to act, but it was driving him insane. As the detective opened the door, he decided he might as well just go back to being his normal self in hopes that John would get angry or something and go back to his normal self. While Sherlock understood that the whole ordeal had been traumatic, he couldn't figure out why John had been so different. The doctor was quieter, he didn't eat much or really do much of anything except go to work, visit Mrs. Hudson, and come home to Sherlock.

_'Come home to Sherlock.'_

The detective blinked, shaking his head at the thought. Hadn't John made it exceptionally clear that he wasn't gay? Hadn't Sherlock himself expressly told the doctor that he was married to his work? Heading down the stairs, Sherlock paused at the bottom for just a few seconds before heading out the front door to try and hail a cab. As usual, John was always close behind.

_'I'm always following him in some way, aren't I? This is routine, comforting almost.'_

The doctor thought, frowning. This was a weird place for John to be putting his male flatmate, but he found Sherlock comfortable. Through all of the tragedy and the mayhem, some of which Sherlock himself had caused, the detective was the one thing in John's life that was constant, and the one thing he couldn't get rid of if he tried. John wanted to be able to talk to Sherlock like normal best friends would, but he feared it. He knew if he opened his mouth and started spouting all of his emotions, he wouldn't be able to stop and he'd probably turn into a pile of mush. Sherlock, of all people, wouldn't be able or want to deal with that, and John didn't want expose himself and be vulnerable to the detective's scrutinizing.

But, even so, Sherlock's presence and acceptance were nice. The detective had not harassed John for information, at least, not yet. John gazed at Sherlock from behind as long as possible before standing next to him as they waited for one of the taxis to stop, sharing a comfortable silence.


	2. Chapter 2

Glancing down at the shorter man beside him, Sherlock felt a lot of weight just fall off of his shoulders now that he had decided to just go back to being Sherlock instead of trying to figure out what "normal" best friends were supposed to do when they find out their wife isn't anywhere near who they thought.

Waving his arm at a cab that had just turned down their street, the detective watched as it stopped in front of them. Opening the door and clambering in, he gave the cabbie the address with a bored tone of voice before turning his attention out of the window. Admittedly, even through all of the awkwardness, it had been incredibly nice to have John back at home with him.

_Back... At home? With me?_

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows, sneaking a sideways glance at John before turning his attention back to the window. He didn't understand all of these thoughts that he had been having since before his faked death, or why he had been upset when he had come home to find John with Mary. He didn't understand why he was secretly pleased that John and Mary had split up.

Sherlock supposed it was because they were best friends, more like brothers than he and Mycroft had ever been. Stealing another glance at the doctor out of the corner of his eye, he realized how thankful he was that John Watson had come limping into his life.

John leaned back in his seat for a moment before sitting back upright; old military habits creeping back in subconsciously. He had missed going out like this, because it was such a familiar scenario: a cab, Sherlock, and John. A small smile crept onto the doctor's features, but it lingered for only a moment before he began tapping his fingers rhythmically against his knee, staring out of the window.

The silence was eerie and John was beginning to dislike it intensely. He missed hearing Sherlock's voice and he wanted more than anything to hear Sherlock ramble on about something, just to fill the silence.

"Talk, for God's sake."

Sherlock had still been staring out of the window, lost in his own thoughts, when John's voice once more broke the silence. Turning to him, eyebrows raised, the detective studied the doctor curiously.

"Really, John, you know I detest idle chitchat."

Frowning, but allowing his expression to soften a bit, Sherlock looked down at John's hands; anything to distract him from the embarrassing admission that he was about to make.

"All I've gotten out of you for the past week is a half hearted thank you or a fleeting goodbye. Now you expect me to speak? Tell me, John,"

Sherlock said softly, raised his eyes back to meet the doctor's as he continued.

"What precisely do you need? Because I'm rubbish at deducing that sort of thing."

Remaining in a dead stare on the doctor, Sherlock expected to either be hit, yelled at, or stormed away from promptly. However, he was tired of this charade they had been playing with "everything's fine" and genuinely needed guidance.

John's face broke into a smile. That was Sherlock. That was the Sherlock he knew: blunt, to the point, not one to simply roll over and deal with people when they were being difficult.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll admit, I haven't been the most sociable person in the world."

Sherlock had snorted openly, not even bothering to hide his sarcastic eye roll at John's sociable comment.

"Really, John, I would have never deduced your lack of social skills the past week, considering that you refused to talk to your best friend."

"You'll have to forgive me for that. I'm not necessarily in need of anything, but suffering in silence isn't helping anybody. Certainly not me. So, I'd like to get back to..."

John gestured to them both.

"This. Something I know."

"Fine. Here's a beginning: dinner. Tomorrow I'll call Lestrade."

Noting that the cab was slowing down, he turned his head to look once more out of the window. They were nearly to the restaurant, which made Sherlock's stomach growl annoyingly. The cab pulled off, stopping in front of The Golden Dragon before Sherlock paid the cabbie and got out.

"Come, John, delicious food awaits."

John gave a slight grin and followed him out. Closing the door, he looked up at the restaurant and then at Sherlock curiously.

"Place still looks nice. We haven't been to this one in ages, have we?"

Sherlock nodded slowly at John's observation, clearing his throat.

"We haven't been since before my fall, John."


	3. Chapter 3

Stepping into another cab after they had finished eating, Sherlock was pleased. Dinner had been excellent, things were progressively going back to normal, and Lestrade had even texted him with a case to look at tomorrow morning. Things were looking up significantly.

"John, the shopping needs to be done tomorrow."

"Yeah, alright. Anything specific?"

John asked, deciding not to get into that old debate on why Sherlock never did the shopping. He wasn't even sure that Sherlock knew how to shop. The detective would probably panic and pick up twenty of one item. Humming quietly, Sherlock thought for a few moments before he looked back to the doctor.

"Milk, tea, sugar, noodles, tea, biscuits, and whatever you feel necessary."

Studying the doctor for a moment, he noted that John hadn't even argued. Smirking slightly as he looked back out of the window, he couldn't help but think that things really were getting back to normal as John gave him a resigned agreement.

"And while I'm off doing that, what will you be doing?"

It had been a while since Sherlock had gone on any cases. John had been out of it, that much was true, but not so much that he had not noticed the detective's lack of activity. He wondered if Sherlock had been holding out for his sake, as his own way of trying to be comforting.

"I'll be at the morgue, measuring skin abrasions from a car crash and awaiting your arrival. We have an interview to sit in on tomorrow at noon with Lestrade."

The taxi came to a halt, and Sherlock climbed out, leaving John to pay with a smirk. Opening the door to 221B, he headed up the stairs without a backward glance. The detective hung his coat and scarf, silently observing the flash drive on his keys as they hung out of his jacket pocket. Turning his eyes to the doctor as he entered the flat, Sherlock cleared his throat.

"John, what did you find out about Mary?"

John's heart stopped momentarily, taken aback by the question. He knew the subject was going to come up at some point, but he didn't think he was ever going to be emotionally ready to answer it, because he didn't want to be vulnerable in front of Sherlock. John gave a small shrug and removed his jacket without a word. Sherlock studied the man, determined to get an answer out of him. When it appeared that the doctor was not going to give him one, he began to deduce probabilities of convincing him. However, after a long, awkward pause, John had answered; sort of.

"Enough."

The detective frowned, following John with his eyes as he crossed the room. Humming in thought, he slid off his shoes and followed after the shorter man into the living room. After another pause, he picked up his violin and gazed out of the window for a moment.

"Alright."

Raising the violin to his shoulder, Sherlock tucked his chin in and began playing one of his favorite songs: a melancholy but sweet tune. Assuming that John was done speaking, he allowed himself to retreat into his mind palace. John was shocked that the detective had not pressed on for more information, and just stared for a moment as Sherlock played his music. It was beautiful, as usual; everything Sherlock did was full of so much grace.

_I don't know how he does it so effortlessly. It's bloody beautiful._

John turned his head to the other side of the room, his thoughts making him feel like some sort of creepy stalker. The opening for that conversation seemed to have closed, since Sherlock was miles away in his mind palace, so the doctor pulled off his own shoes and leaned back in his chair with a quiet sigh.

_What an odd day._

Little did John know, Sherlock was already planning on retrieving the information himself. He would owe Mycroft a favor, unfortunately, but the questions itched at the back of his brain like mad.

_What had Mary done? Who had Mary actually been in the past? What had been so horrifyingly awful that John had dismissed her without much of a backward glance?_

Sherlock had to know, and quite frankly, he wasn't going to stop until he did. After all, he had done a full background check of public and private records of John after he had shot a man for Sherlock after barely knowing him twenty-four hours. Surely Mycroft could dig up something on who Mary Morstan was supposed to have been. Letting his thoughts drift again, he thought a bit of coffee would be nice, and began waltzing around the room.

"Coffee would be excellent, John."

"At this hour?"

John asked, raising a brow his direction. He didn't know why he even stated the question, as Sherlock seldom slept. The detective was known for passing out from exhaustion, but hardly ever did he willingly sleep. Still waltzing around, playing the violin, Sherlock snorted, talking quietly to himself.

"At this hour. Really, John Watson, it's like you don't know me at all."

"Nevermind. One black coffee, two sugars, for the arsehole too lazy to make his own."

John made his way to the kitchen, thinking perhaps he would have some coffee as well. Sleep was not his friend most nights anymore, either.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Tension is such a fun thing to write.  
>Hope everyone enjoys!<br>The next chapter involves trickery and feelings. x3**

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><p>Sherlock had stopped waltzing as the doctor threw out information about how exactly he took his coffee, but continued to play the violin as he watched the doctor shuffle into the kitchen. Sherlock was impressed - no, touched, really - that the doctor hadn't made him coffee in practically four years and here John was remembering exactly how Sherlock liked to drink it. Curious as to how much John actually paid attention, Sherlock decided to perform an experiment.<p>

"John," The detective called into the kitchen in an offhand tone, "what's my favorite color?"

Sherlock flicked his eyes to the scarf hanging by the door before moving his gaze back to the violin, playing softer now.

"A test? What fun."

John started the coffee pot, rolling his eyes. Only Sherlock. After a short pause, the doctor called out his answer.

"Blue, I'd wager."

John made a circle around the kitchen a few times, shaking his head in disgust.

"God, we have to clean in here."

All the dishes were dirty, it seemed, but after a bit of looking the doctor found a couple cups that were in the top cabinet. He had no clue why they were up so high, as that wasn't the usual spot they were stored. However, expecting any organization whilst sharing a flat with Sherlock Holmes was a pipe dream. Soon John realized that he couldn't quite reach the mugs enough to grab them, only brush them with his fingertips as he stood on tiptoe.

Sherlock had already thought of at least twenty more questions to ask when he heard the doctor rummaging around in the cabinets. The detective smirked sneakily, beginning to waltz around the room again as he played violin. Sherlock had purposely put the last two clean mugs in the top cabinet in an attempt to get John to speak to him a few days ago, and had been washing their two same mugs every time he had gotten them both tea before John had snapped out of his reverie earlier this evening.

Huffing quietly, the doctor's face turned slightly pink as he realized that his options were to drag a chair over to the cabinets, sure to result in Sherlock's laughter, or ask the detective to come and get them down for him, as he really didn't feel like washing dishes this late at night. Sighing, the doctor stuck his head out of the kitchen.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock laid down his violin and crossed the room to the kitchen entrance. Leaning against the doorway, he raised his eyebrows in private amusement.

"Yes, John?"

The doctor pointed at the cabinet and gave the detective a skeptical half-glare.

"There's no foreign matter in these, is there?"

It was the only thing John could come up with for the mugs being set up so high and so obviously out of the way: some kind of experiment with mold or eyeballs. Unable to help himself, Sherlock laughed quietly as John glared up at him suspiciously.

"No, John; there isn't an experiment in those mugs."

Sherlock moved over to the cabinets, grabbed the mugs with a small smirk, and set them down on the countertop. Turning to poke a bit of fun at John, he stopped when he realized how close he was to the other man. Sherlock stared down at John for a good thirty seconds, observing again the strangely beautiful blue-gray of his eyes before turning away to pretend to check the coffee pot. He really needed to distance himself from John. These thoughts and observations were getting a little out of hand.

"So you put them all the way up there why exactly?"

John rolled his eyes, not expecting an answer, before gently pulling the detective out of the way of the coffee pot.

"Back to your violin, then. I've got it from here."

Jerking in surprise when John touched him, the detective gave him another pondering look before stalking back off into the living room. Sherlock picked up his violin and began just playing, not sticking to any certain tune as he lost himself in his mind palace once more. As soon as John went to sleep, the information war on Mary Morstan was going to begin.

John proceeded to make the coffee. When it was ready, he prepared just how he knew Sherlock liked it and then brought the cup over to him, watching him sway slightly as he played the seemingly random notes. Thoughts of holding the detective while he composed flashed across John's mind and his grasp on the cups tightened. Clearing his throat, the doctor spoke.

"Coffee's ready, might want to drink while it's still hot this time."

The doctor's face promptly reddened as the realization that the adjective could also be used to describe the detective crossed his mind.

"While it's still warm, not hot, because that would be scalding."

Sherlock turned to face the doctor, raising his eyebrows, before setting down his violin and taking the cup.

"Scalding and warm are two very different things, don't you think, John?"

Sherlock mused, turning away from John once more as he took a large gulp. Delicious, and perfect; just the way he liked it. The detective flopped down onto his chair, pulling the newspaper into his lap before adding an afterthought:

"Thank you, John."

Sherlock glanced over at the clock, noting it was nearing midnight, before going back to reading the paper, still smirking slightly as the doctor eased down into his own chair.

"Isn't it your bedtime, Dr. Watson?"

"I don't take bed orders from you, Sherlock."

Sherlock shrugged, still smirking a bit as his eyes glanced over the crime section in the newspaper. Looking up, he thought for a moment before turning his eyes back down.

"Alright, but when you have to be up in the morning to do the shopping, don't complain about how tired you are."

John gave him a tilted look, sipping his coffee gingerly.

"Don't you ever get tired?"

Throwing the doctor an incredulous look, Sherlock shook his head.

"Not often. I have more interesting things to do than sleeping, most nights. Besides, I slept for three hours yesterday."

The detective set down the newspaper before reaching across to the end table next to him and grabbed his laptop, shifting a bit so he was sitting cross-legged.

"Oooh, three hours. You're a dangerous man, aren't you?"

John snorted, taking a gulp of his coffee, before standing up from his seat and stretching. Sherlock whipped out his phone, glanced at John's back, then typed out a quick text to Mycroft.

'I need a favor. -SH'

Sherlock gave the doctor a once-over glance before turning his eyes back to the laptop, beginning to type like mad. Already the detective had accessed Britain's online public records, using Mycroft's information, of course, and was well on his way to tracing everything the so-called "Mary Morstan" had been doing in the public eye.

"If you're not sleeping, mind if I sleep in your bedroom? Your king-sized bed beats the hell out of my full."

"Fine. Don't drool on my pillows, you have an awful habit of doing that to your own."


	5. Chapter 5

John turned briefly to give Sherlock a disapproving look before he began unbuttoning his cuffs as he strolled back to the nocturnal detective's room.

"I do not drool."

Sherlock snorted at the doctor, shaking his head.

"You do."

Glancing again at the doctor's back, he observed John beginning to unbutton his shirt and raised his eyebrows, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

I wouldn't be opposed to seeing that view from the front... Ugh, stop, Sherlock.

"Getting undressed in the living room, John?"

Sherlock asked snarkily, moving his gaze back to the laptop to hide his embarrassment. John turned around a bit and gave the detective a sideways look before laughing slightly.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

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><p>Nine hours and many cups of tea later, Sherlock shut his laptop before laying it on the end table once more. Thanks to Mycroft, he now knew all about Mary's past life and all of the identities she had assumed. Sherlock was quite frankly disgusted with the woman, especially after he had found out she had married two other men before John under two different names. Sighing, he pushed himself to his feet and wandered into his bedroom to get a fresh change of clothes. He paused, observing John's still-sleeping form for a moment before leaning over the doctor.<p>

"John, wake up. It's time to do the shopping."

"Sherlock..."

John mumbled, making himself more comfortable, hugging one of the pillows tightly. He muttered a few other things that were incoherent , then rolled onto his back, snoring quietly. Sherlock chuckled silently; it always amused him when John started talking in his sleep.

"John," Sherlock said, poking him in the side, "wake up."

Pulling a pillow that wasn't being smothered by John off of the bed, Sherlock prepared himself.

"If you don't get up, I'm going to see how long it takes you to pass back out from lack of oxygen."

"Mmmnngg..."

John groaned disapprovingly, finally starting to get the gist it was time to wake up. Sherlock's bed was just so comfortable, though. Sighing at John's sluggishness, Sherlock shook his head.

"An experiment, then."

The detective promptly dropped the pillow on John's face, pressing his fingertips into the soft material on each side. It took John a moment before he realized that his airways were being blocked. Pushing the pillow off of his face, the doctor was definitely awake now and a bit pissed.

"What the hell was that, Sherlock? I just woke up, you bloody arsehole!"

"I warned you."

Stepping smoothly out of the doctor's reach, Sherlock wandered over to his wardrobe and picked out a shirt and slacks.

"Surely you can think of better ways of waking someone up than attempted murder."

"I wasn't going to murder you, John. I'm taking a shower. Don't go back to sleep."

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><p>The morning had been busy, for lack of a better term. Sherlock had sat in on an interview with a self-professed murderer at the Scotland Yard while John had went and gotten the shopping from the grocery store. The two men had then been sent to different locations to look for clues as to who the real murderer was from the earlier interview for the last couple of hours, and Sherlock was thoroughly disappointed. Neither himself nor John had succeeded in finding any useful new evidence from the crime scene nor the supposed murderer's home, other than shoe size and hair color. Walking out of Scotland Yard once more, the detective texted John.<p>

'Lestrade has Donovan doing profile checks of the description. Until they find the killer or another body, we're done. Dinner? -SH'

The detective shoved his phone back into his pocket and tossed his coffee cup into the trash. He began walking down the street as he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, knowing full well that John would disapprove. However, considering that he always did better on cases when he had nicotine, he felt John could deal with it.

'Sounds lovely. Where? - JW'

'Angelo's. -SH'

Sherlock finished his cigarette before stepping out into the street and hailing a taxi. It was odd that he had eaten two days in a row, and he sincerely hoped it wasn't an epidemic. John smiled as he received the message; the text making him feel somewhat nostalgic. He caught his thought pattern and wanted to scold himself. Look at him, getting all giddy as though he were going on a date with someone he fancied. Of course, even if he had, probabilities were low that John would ever admit that to himself, let alone Sherlock.

That would be disastrous.

Shaking his head at the feelings he was having, John caught a cab to the restaurant and waited for Sherlock out front, hands folded nervously behind his back. John looked up as Sherlock's cab stopped in front of the restaurant, and the detective smiled slightly at seeing the doctor waiting out front for him.

Those are not feelings. I am not pleased. It's just because we're friends and usually I'm waiting on him.

Sherlock paid the driver and got out, smoothly turning his collar up against the wind, and met the other man at the door.

"John."

Sherlock opened the door, making his way inside, still internally fussing at himself. John lowered his head, hiding his smile as he walked in after the detective, but lifted it once they were greeted. After the two of them had said their hellos, they found a seat and got comfortable. Sherlock hadn't even picked up the menu, knowing what he wanted already, and had begun to people watch to keep his mind occupied when John spoke.

"So, decently exciting day."

The doctor cleared his throat quietly, trying not to flush.

Oh, this is stupid, it's just Sherlock. Calm down or he'll start deducing your behavior.

Flicking his pale green gaze over to study his flatmate, Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly as he observed.

Nervous. Wide eyes. Pupils slightly dilated. Attempt at small talk. Interesting...

"Yes. Much better than decomposing at the flat with nothing to do."

The detective tilted his head, watching John's reactions: both voluntary and involuntary.

Deductions: hiding something.

"Don't be so dramatic."

John replied, rolling his eyes and leaning forward with hands folded on the table. Sherlock snorted softly at John's dramatic comment. He was not dramatic, in his opinion. Still watching John, the detective narrowed his eyes as he, too, leaned forward slightly. When John saw the other man staring at him with scrutinizing intensity, his grey-blue eyes narrowed.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"You are hiding something from me, John Watson. The fidgeting, pupils dilated, gaze wandering, attempts at steering your thoughts otherwise with small talk..."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, daring the other man to deny it.

Oh, Hell.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: I just wanted to say thank you to all of my new followers and people who have favorited, commented, and viewed! I appreciate it a lot. I hope everyone is enjoying this thus far. Let me know what you think! 3  
><strong>

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><p>John leaned back and rolled his eyes, giving Sherlock a skeptical grin.<p>

"Come on, what could I possibly hide from you that you couldn't work out in two minutes or less?"

"That's precisely why I'm so intrigued."

John didn't know what the detective was getting at, and quite frankly, he didn't want to know. John didn't even know why he was acting the way he was, so there was a sort of bright side to that: if he didn't know, then surely Sherlock couldn't drag it out of him. Right? The doctor looked back up at those bright blue-green eyes that were trying to reveal all his secrets, musing that there was something quite seductive about that look.

No. Stop that right now!

Sherlock watched as the other man's pupils dilated further when looking directly at him, tilting his head in curiosity. John looked away, flushing, and the detective was further intrigued.

Interesting.

Angelo himself then came over and took their orders, grinning brightly as always. He patted Sherlock on the back and turned to give the kitchen the orders when he smiled back over his shoulder.

"And of course bread sticks are on the way."

The Italian left and Sherlock turned his gaze back to John to observe what he already knew.

Sandy blonde. Clean-shaven, after that disaster of a mustache. 5'6" and muscular. Military background. Attracted to danger. Eyes that strange blue-grey, like a stormy ocean. What is he hiding? Oh. Oh… John doesn't trust me.

"Fine, I don't want to know. You'll tell me if you do."

Sherlock spoke suddenly, pursing his lips and looking away.

"Well I can assure you, there is nothing that needs to be told."

John licked his lips and folded his arms on the table, exhaling quietly, when he realized that he was suddenly was afraid to look at the detective sitting across from him. He didn't appreciate being under Sherlock's microscope, as if he was being examined like a crime scene. Of course, John couldn't make himself look away for too long, wondering what the dark-headed man was thinking.

There's nothing odd about noticing a man's attractive, right? That doesn't mean I'm desiring him, it just means that it's a fact: he's a good-looking bloke.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at the other man, aware that he was uncomfortable and very aware that he, too, was feeling uncomfortable.

"Right."

Looking up as Angelo placed a basket of fresh bread sticks on the table, Sherlock thanked him before grabbing himself one and picked off a piece. Chewing thoughtfully, he let his eyes flicker about the other customers, appearing to people watch.

Eyes the color of a stormy ocean. Really, Sherlock, poetry and sentimentality were never your strong suits. It's as if you've got a school boy crush -

Suddenly choking on his bite of bread stick, the detective realized that he might feel affection, and not the brotherly kind, toward the doctor. Calming himself and swallowing carefully with a sip of water, he cleared his throat.

Of course you feel affection toward John. He's your best and only friend.

"John," The detective started casually, taking another bite of bread stick, "would you say that best friends tolerate one another better than most?"

John raised his eyebrows, somewhat amused with Sherlock's choking then calm proceeding with his inquiries.

"Yeah. That's sort of why we throw the 'best' bit in there. You've said on a few occasions that I'm mental for tolerating you, though."

John half grinned, taking a breadstick himself before looking down and ripping off a piece. He glanced back up casually, wondering where Sherlock was going with this, but thankful for the distraction. Listening carefully, the detective nodded his assent after John finished speaking.

"I'm a high-functioning sociopath with little social skills and a talent for being brusque. Of course you're mental to have me as a friend."

Sherlock took another bite of bread stick before raising his eyes to meet John's.

"So, other than the irrelevancy of being sexually attracted, how does one tell the difference between a close friend and a lover? I've no experience with lovers, other than dabbles in sexual intercourse at uni. Experiments, of course."

Sherlock waved his hand, rolling his eyes, before continuing.

"Is a lover merely a best friend with sexual encounters thrown in, John? How does one know?"

The detective kept his focus solidly on the doctor, ripping off small pieces of bread stick now and then to munch on as he studied the other man's reaction. John's mouth fell open for a couple seconds, forcing himself to close it before Sherlock read too far into his actions. Now the doctor was even more focused on discerning what exactly Sherlock was getting at with trying to read him. Sherlock was always a bloody mystery, and with these sorts of questions, some might be lead to think that the detective was flirting. Deciding it was probably just scientific curiosity, John decided to attempt to answer the question, clearing his throat.

"Interesting dinner topic. Well, typically the difference is… Well, it's kind of hard to explain. There are different kinds of lovers, and some are just that: physical lovers. You know, people you meet when you just want to, ah…"

The doctor looked around to make sure that no one's eyes but Sherlock's were on his. This wasn't really an appropriate topic for a restaurant.

"Ah, get off, you know. Now, close friends, obviously that's not what they do. They do what you and I do, sort of."

John started to get even more nervous at this point, because bringing himself into the equation wasn't really the best idea. Surprisingly, the detective had remained quiet, only softly snorting when John quietly muttered the words "get off" as if anyone gave a damn as to what they were talking about.

"Best friends can and sometimes do become a little more than that. Sometimes it's the best thing in the world, being in a relationship with your best friend. Not your best friend, obviously, I'm clearly generalizing here. But yes, I suppose you could consider a lover, boyfriend, girlfriend or whatever as being a best friend with whom you are much more intimate."

God, this is awkward.

Sherlock had listened to John carefully and had observed his every move, every pause, and every facial expression with interest. The doctor's face had reddened toward the end, and Sherlock smirked slightly, amused.

"Really, John, you're a doctor and speaking of love makes you blush. How quaint."

Shooting a glare at Sherlock, John began tearing apart a bread stick, embarrassed as he kept his gaze away from the detective's. Sherlock finished his own bread stick, looking thoughtful until their food arrived a moment later. With a quick thanks, Sherlock looked over at the still-flushed blonde questioningly.

"So, when I was gone, Mary became your best friend, and thus your lover?"

John lowered his face, keeping as much emotion off his face as was possible, feeling faintly nauseated at the mention of his ex-wife's name. Pushing his chair from out under the table, he promptly stood up, much to Sherlock's surprise.

"I suppose, but that isn't really a fair comparison, Sherlock. My best friend was dead."

Scowling at the memories, the doctor turned away from him.

"Now if you'll excuse me, I need the lavatory."


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: I'm late, and I apologize for that. x_o  
>Anyway, a little fighting between our two favorite boys.<br>Just wait until the next chapter. Sherlock is going to perform a little "experiment" with feelings...  
>Hehehehe. Let me know what you think!<br>Co-authored as always with the lovely, amazing, awesome, fantastic Goosie-Boosie on DA!**

* * *

><p>Watching the doctor stalk off toward the bathrooms, Sherlock sighed, tossing his bread stick into his barely touched spaghetti. John stepped inside the lavatory and locked the door, standing in front of the mirror to take a look at himself, willing his reflection to give him answers. Of course, he should have seen it earlier. Sherlock was trying to get him to talk about the whole ordeal with Mary. He laughed through his nose once, shaking his head slowly, realizing that he felt silly about getting so worked up.<p>

These topics really make me sweat, don't they? Damn it.

By the time John had come back, Sherlock's spaghetti was boxed up and he had his jacket on, ready to leave. He had deduced that the look on the doctor's face had been doubtful, hesitant, and full of distrust. Therefore the detective had assumed that John no longer trusted him, and he was hurt; unfortunately. Now Sherlock's senses were screaming at him to get away, get away, before the doctor did something else to wound his ego.

It is not an advantage to get involved, Sherlock.

In the back of his mind, Sherlock knew he was being irrational, but he had never felt affection toward another before and now he was extremely confused. Standing up and picking up his takeaway box just after John had sat back down, Sherlock looked directly down at the other man.

"I had been asking questions because I began to feel affection toward someone who I believed tolerable. However, seeing as my supposed 'best friend' cannot trust me, I have realized what a fool I have been for entertaining the thought of getting involved with someone. Good day, John Watson."

John was bewildered with Sherlock's reaction, as he had not known that anything was wrong. Angrily and much like a child, Sherlock had turned on his heel and exited the building, thoroughly pissed off. The doctor was just staring after him, completely shocked and speechless.

The things he was saying! Of course I trust him, I trust him more than anyone in this whole world. How could the world's most brilliant detective not see that? What a bloody idiot!

John wasn't going to stand for this, however, as Sherlock was being a complete arse and his usual drama queen self when he didn't get his way. Grabbing his own jacket, the doctor hurried out the door and sighed as the inevitable drizzle of rain greeted him, with no sign of the detective.

* * *

><p>Three hours later, Sherlock sighed quietly, putting the small tape measurer in his pocket. He had been measuring lacerations and bruising after death on a corpse that had jumped from a building. The feelings of his own fall were soon too strong to ignore, however, and he had given up on the experiment. The detective flopped down into Molly's chair next to the small desk where she made notes on the bodies, beginning to get lost in his mind palace. Why had things changed so drastically between himself and the doctor? He didn't understand, and wasn't sure if he ever would. Aware that he had been utterly rude, however, he began trying to decide how on Earth he was going to apologize to John whenever he got home without telling him the real reasons behind what had made him upset.<p>

Self doubt. Realization. Horror at the thought of emotions. Resistance of said feelings. Terror that the only man he trusted in the world did not trust him back. Crushing doubt about anything becoming of these feelings he had.

Molly opened the door to his left quietly, and he looked up to meet her eyes. Without saying anything, she placed two cups of coffee on the desk and pulled up another chair next to him. Watching her carefully, the detective reached out and took the coffee with both hands and sipped it. Perfect.

"Thank you, Molly."

"You're welcome."

They sat in a comfortable silence, sipping coffee with the faint but familiar smells of cleaning chemicals and embalming fluid mixing with their drinks. After a few more moments, Molly looked over to Sherlock and smiled slightly.

"I know you're hiding from John. But don't you think it's time you went home and apologized?"

The detective merely stared down into his coffee cup, letting his the tip of his pinky circle the cup's edge as he thought. Finally, he sighed, and nodded to Molly.

"Yes, I suppose you're right. Text me the next time you get an interesting body."

Sherlock stood, squeezed Molly's shoulder gently, and strode out of the morgue, coffee cup still in hand. He finished the rest of the warm liquid before he reached the outside, pausing only to toss the paper cup into the waste basket near the front doors. Stepping out into the cold, he turned up his collar against the wind and hailed a taxi. Climbing in a few moments later, he still had no idea how to apologize to John.

"Baker Street, please."

* * *

><p>John had made his way home, shaking his head at himself as he tried to figure out what the hell had just happened in the restaurant. Sherlock was a drama queen, sure, but it wasn't like him to be emotional on a could-be-romantically-interested way. The doctor let his thoughts move him, and found himself in the shower, letting the scalding water cascade over his tense shoulders.<p>

Why did you let him leave? Why didn't you say something? How could you have possibly been so heartless as to make him feel untrusted? What the devil is going on?

Then other types of questions arose in the doctor's thoughts that made him increasingly uncomfortable. Why did he get so nervous when Sherlock brought up the topic of lovers and why did he want Sherlock here with him right now? Oh, this was absolutely mental, and he needed to stop thinking like this. He didn't have feelings for the detective. He just did not.

"Shut up, John."

He grunted at himself, ending the shower and putting on some new clothes. Letting his thoughts wander once more, John decided to tidy up the kitchen to occupy himself. He glanced briefly at the living room when he knew his jacket and his phone would be and contemplated texting Sherlock. Shaking his head, the blonde set to scrubbing the kitchen instead.

* * *

><p>Sherlock opened the door to their portion of the flat quietly, closing it behind him as he hung his coat and scarf. He snorted softly at the blonde dozing in his chair before he made his way to the kitchen to put his leftovers in the fridge. The detective hoped that John would stay asleep so that he could hide a little longer. However, John opened his eyes groggily, and called into the kitchen.<p>

"Home, then?"

The detective's entire body had stiffened at the sound of John's voice. He sighed quietly, shutting the fridge before making his way back into the living room.

I can avoid apologizing all together if I just pretend to go to bed.

"Obviously. Good night."

Sherlock, on second thought, crossed the room and grabbed his violin with its bow before trotting into his bedroom quietly. John exhaled loudly at the detective's departure, hurt that the detective seemed to want to get away from him as soon as possible. Shaking off the drowsiness, John got up and knocked on the bedroom door frame with a sigh.

"Can we talk?"

Sherlock looked up, violin already under his chin, as John appeared in the doorway. Looking down to his violin, he positioned the bow properly in preparation to play.

"We are both functional adults, John. We both have vocal capability to make noise and communicate."

The brunette knew the reply was sarcastic, but he really didn't want to have to look at John while all of these feelings were still swirling around his brain. Quietly, he began to play one of his favorite haunting melodies, trying to keep his eyes away from the doctor in hopes that he would just leave.

"Right, then. Can I come in? Look, you don't have to say anything. Just let me talk."

John felt he should know better than to press on, especially when he knew Sherlock was in a mood where he didn't want to be bothered. But he couldn't sleep well knowing that the detective was believing a lie. He had to at least attempt to correct it.

Sighing dramatically, the detective turned to look at John, pausing his playing.

"Honestly, John, after all the time we have spent together and you still cannot ask permission properly. The correct phrase is 'May I' not 'can I,' unless you doubt your ability to do something."

He raised his eyebrows at the doctor before sighing once more. Laying down his violin carefully, he turned his full attention to John.

"What do you want from me, John Watson? If you cannot trust me I have no use for your companionship."

Sherlock balled his fists up at his side, suddenly feeling angry and betrayed all over again. He wondered briefly if this was what John had felt like when he jumped off the roof of St. Bart's.

"That, there! Shut up!"

John snapped, entering the bedroom.

"Look, I know I haven't been what you would call open since everything happened. But I don't see how that made you come to the conclusion that I don't trust you. I wouldn't even be here if I did not trust you completely. You should know that more than anyone, Mister…"

The doctor threw up his hands in frustration, laughing sarcastically.

"Mister I-Know-Everything-In-The-Bloody-Universe!"

John shook his head, trying to calm himself down. Lowering his voice, he tried to speak without trembling, barely noting that the detective was speechless.

"I have never not trusted you, Sherlock. Sometimes I think you are the only person in this world that I can trust."

The detective had raised his eyebrows at John once more before looking away from him, allowing all of the anger to drain out of him.

"You haven't been open, that is true. But at the restaurant I let myself be vulnerable when I was asking you those questions. Your facial expressions just screamed doubt, denial, distrust, disgust, and all sorts of things! It was like you didn't want to speak to me at all."

Sherlock let his fists relax before he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wardrobe.

"Perhaps it was because I was vulnerable that I saw those things. But the truth is, as you said yourself, you have not spoken to me much at all about anything since you moved back into 221B. I feel that you do not wish to confide in me as I have confided in you."

He let his gaze wander the floor, noting pieces of lint and random articles of clothing that he needed to pick up, fighting the urge to look at the ex-soldier.

"I apologize for how I acted. But you know as well as I do that I don't have friends."

Sherlock looked back up at John hesitantly, reading the shock and remnants of anger that his expression contained.

"Only one."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Thank you to all of my readers. You guys are the best. x3  
>But how do you think Dr. Watson will react to Sherlock's little experiment?<br>Only time will tell... Mwhahaha. 3**

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><p>Apologies were made after the short fight, and weeks passed before things fell back into the mostly normal swing of 221B; almost the way it had been before Sherlock's faked death. Sherlock and John solved a few cases here and there, but none were extraordinarily interesting. The only thing that really changed was the fact that the two men were spending increasingly more time together. Try as he might, Sherlock was unable to hush the feelings that he had for John, so he merely lived with them and tried to not alert the doctor to their presence. However, it was now a week before Valentine's Day, and Sherlock was sitting cross-legged on the floor with his hands steepled under his chin, lost in his mind palace.<p>

I want to get John something for Valentine's Day without being ... Obvious. After all, the bloody holiday is nothing but a marketing scheme, of course, but it isn't only about romantic love. I do love John, as much as a friend or brother or best friend can, and want to appreciate him. But how...? Perhaps a new jumper.

The detective laughed silently, smirking.

* * *

><p>John was currently at work. He had been working overtime the past few days to make up for all the time that he had taken off to help Sherlock with his cases. John had almost forgotten about the upcoming holiday, seeing as he didn't have any big plans for it this year, nor was he looking to make any.<p>

Maybe I'll just spend it with Sherlock.

Rolling his eyes, the doctor realized that was all he needed: Sherlock giving him twenty questions about why he wanted to share the day with him. It is a bit romantic, after all, and these thoughts were getting even harder to conceal.

Why am I worrying about what Sherlock thinks so much? He's my best friend and I'm grateful to him. He knows that. He's been there for me when no one else has, so of course he's on my mind, and I want to appreciate him. That isn't strange, right? What happened with Mary was a very traumatic event and now that I can't date I'm just spending more time with my best friend instead.

Blinking and bringing himself back to reality, John realized that he needed to go home. Three hours of overtime was quite enough for today, especially when he couldn't even keep his bloody thoughts on the paperwork he was supposed to be filling out. Pulling out his phone, he shot Sherlock a text and promptly finished the page he was on with his signature. That would have to do.

Need anything? - JW

* * *

><p>Sherlock had been contemplating whether or not a watch would be a platonic sort of gift when his phone went off. He had set the text tone to vibrate and beep at the same time for when John texted him, and Sherlock smiled ever so slightly as he heard the tell-tale buzz from the coffee table. It was subtle, admittedly, since his normal text tone was the same beep, but without the vibration. He had wanted to know when to ignore his phone and when to actually go check his text messages, however, and this had been the easiest (and least obvious) way to do so.<p>

The detective pulled himself to his feet, thoughts still humming in his inner ear about gifts, as he crossed the room and picked up his phone to check the message. Smirking once more, he tapped out a reply.

Bring home some flowers,

I need them for an experiment.

Whatever you think best will do.

- SH

Sherlock had decided earlier that day to perform this experiment at some point during the week, but since John had asked, he decided to go through with it, despite the nervous flutter in his stomach. He absolutely needed to know if John Watson had any feelings that were not strictly platonic for him, and had decided that he would ask for flowers without any specifications, which was very unlike him. If John brought potted flowers or something that could be grown, Sherlock was going to take that as a 'just doing what you asked' gesture. If the doctor brought home a bouquet of flowers or something that he had picked himself, there were romantic intentions, regardless of how subconscious they may be.

Laying down his phone on the side table once more, Sherlock knew that tonight would be interesting, despite the result of the flowers experiment.

* * *

><p>"Flowers?"<p>

John asked aloud, looking down at his phone. He raised his eyebrows and then soundlessly mouthed the word again. Shaking his head, the doctor was relieved to be departing the cramped office as he slipped on his jacket and walked outside to hail a cab. Reflecting on the detective's request as he slid into the back seat of a cab, he couldn't help but find it odd.

Flowers shouldn't be too difficult to find, given the time of year it is, because everyone is looking for flowers. Granted, not for experiments, but thankfully this task will be easily accomplished.

He had the taxi take him a few streets down to a flower shop and asked the cabbie to wait, hurrying inside.

What type of flowers would Sherlock like? Does it even matter? Most likely they were going to be chopped up for something, anyway...

Glancing around the store, the blonde noticed the abundance of red roses that were accompanied with foil and plastic heart decorations. Most of them had sentimental sayings of love and adoration or proclamations of 'Happy Valentine's Day!' John grinned privately, perfectly aware that Sherlock would murder him if he picked something boring like that. John walked towards the back, deciding to try and find something not violently geared toward females or love, when he caught sight of a bouquet that had long stems of lavender and small white flowers. They were beautiful, as there was a hint of mystery to them, much like the man he was buying them for. John grazed his fingertips against the petals. They were so soft, much like he imagined Sherlock's skin was…

He blinked with a shocked and bewildered expression, his cheeks reddening. God, it was as if he were buying for an actual date! The doctor swore he was going absolutely mental, seeing as these thoughts were getting harder and harder to keep platonic, even with the simplest tasks that Sherlock was giving him. It was just for an experiment. Just for an experiment.

John snatched the flowers up and bought them, trying to ignore how nervous he felt when buying flowers for Sherlock, especially with how close to the holiday it was. He stepped into the taxi, laid the bouquet on his lap, and texted Sherlock, scowling at himself.

I'm minutes away.

These had better be alright.

I'm not going back out.

- JW


	9. Chapter 9

**Let me begin by first saying that I am so incredibly sorry.**  
><strong>I've had way too much going on in my personal life for the past month, and I just haven't had the time or energy to complete this story.<strong>  
><strong>However, bit by bit, I finally squeezed this out, and I feel it's a good note to end on.<strong>  
><strong>Things in my life have gotten a little easier the past week, though, and it looks like they're going to continue getting better, so be on the look out for more fanfics in the future!<strong>  
><strong>I hope everyone enjoyed this, 'cause I sure did.<strong>  
><strong>Let me know what you thought, lovelies.<strong>

**Co-authored with the wonderful, amazing, absolutely perfect Goosie-Boosie on DA.**

* * *

><p>Sherlock had wandered into the bedroom to change clothes, since he had only been wearing underwear and his housecoat. He thought of what would happen if John brought home romantic flowers and he admitted his feelings to the doctor in nothing but his underwear, laughing quietly. That would have been interesting. Ignoring the small desperate flips that his stomach was making, the detective changed into his normal attire: black slacks and a button-up shirt, a royal blue color that went well with his skin tone.<p>

Sherlock stared into the mirror a few moments before unbuttoning his wrist cuffs and rolling the sleeves up to his elbow neatly. Casual, but handsome. Surely there was nothing telling about the way he had dressed just for John to come home. From the other room came his text tone, and he smiled slightly, tight-lipped. It was only a matter of time before he found out how the doctor felt, one way or the other, and the thought was somewhat comforting. Sherlock walked into the living room and read the message, snorting at John's idle threat.

Good. -SH

The detective wandered into the kitchen after he sent his message, suddenly thirsty.

Nerves.

* * *

><p>John took a deep breath as he stepped out of the cab, looking down at the bouquet in his hand as he shut the door behind him. The nervous feeling in the pit of his stomach had grown, and his heart seemed to be stuttering its beats. This was surely just another favor for Sherlock, just another piece of an experiment, and nothing was meant by it. Pulling the key out of his pocket to 221B, he opened the door and couldn't help but hope that there was no emotion flitting across his face. Steeling himself, the doctor climbed the stairs, determined to just get it over with so that he could go back to trying to ignore his ever-growing feelings for the asexual detective.<p>

"Sherlock! I've got your bloody flowers."

Sherlock's heart skipped when he heard the door open to their flat, nearly choking on his water. He hadn't expected the doctor to be here that quickly, or perhaps it was just his nerves interfering with time perception. Clearing his throat as quietly as possible, he set the glass of half-finished water on the counter before poking his head around the corner of the kitchen wall.

Bouquet. Purple. White. Lavender flowers, then. The most common popular culture meaning of giving a lavender flower is love and devotion. Devotion, certainly, John proved that the first case we went on together when he shot the cabbie. But love? Does John... love me?

Swallowing nervously, Sherlock decided to just go with his instincts. His brain and body alike were screaming advice at him as he strolled, as casually as possible, into the living room. Reaching John, he gently took the bouquet of flowers out of the man's hands, observing them.

"A bouquet."

The detective smelled them appreciatively, transferring them to his left hand. Heart thudding like mad, he reached forward with his right hand and pulled John to his body by the shoulder and leaning down, pressed his lips gently against the doctor's all in a matter of seconds.

"Thank you, John."

It was a whisper, certainly a scared one, as Sherlock turned on his heel to try and escape to his bedroom. John needed time to process what had just happened. Sherlock would be the type to show his affection and then immediately want to disappear, wouldn't he? John didn't know what to think. Was this still for an experiment? Was this a thank you for getting the correct kind?

"Sherlock. Wait."

The 'asexual' detective just kissed me. Sherlock kissed me. Sherlock Holmes. What?

Sherlock had frozen, hand already extended to open his bedroom door. He turned back to John and raised his eyebrows, swallowing nervously as he took in every aspect of the doctor's appearance.

"Yes, John?"

The detective's thoughts were whirling once more in a far too confused fashion, trying to deduce John's feelings and reactions and what he was going to say next. No wonder the detective never fooled with feelings, they made him feel far too anxious for his liking.

"What… What was that?"

John began, taking a step toward the brunette as he licked his lips subtly, trying to capture the flavor of Sherlock's own lips.

"I am very, very… confused. What was that? The kiss, I… I don't know what to expect from you. Was that a thank you? Or was that part of your experiment?"

Everything was logical with Sherlock. The natural thought pattern for anyone else would be that the other was romantically interested, but the doctor knew that couldn't be the case. Sherlock had said on many occasions that things like that weren't his area, so there had to be something else. Staring blankly up at the detective, John couldn't help but wish that this beautiful man meant something by the kiss, and it wasn't just an experiment, but a real display of affection.

God, I really am attracted to him, aren't I? John "I'm-not-gay" Watson just got kissed by a man… And enjoyed it.

Sherlock waited for John to stop forming half-sentences patiently, eyebrows still raised as he observed the doctor. After John had finished, he smirked slightly before launching into his explanation.

"The flowers were an experiment to see if you brought me something platonic, like in a pot or that could be grown on its own, or romantic, like a bouquet."

He gestured to the flowers still in his hand before continuing.

"You chose romantic. This indicates a romantic interest, regardless of subtlety. If you were a woman, this part would be more difficult, but since you're a man, the probability of you choosing romantic flowers is high for someone you are interested in. Not to mention the dilated pupils, wide gaze, tense stature, the licking of your lips, and the fact that you didn't get angry and hit me."

The detective moved the few steps between them to stand right in front of John once more.

"Therefore, John, I conclude that you are indeed not only attracted to me, but you are also romantically interested, whether or not you have admitted it to yourself. So, I'll show you again, since you keep asking 'what was that.'"

John felt his heart stop as he quietly gasped at Sherlock's deductions of his feelings. His face grew redder by the second, unsure if Sherlock just interested in this information or if he was actually interested in him as well. Bending down, slowly this time, Sherlock brushed his lips against John's rough ones. Pulling away, he smirked.

"I kissed you. That is what."

The doctor was, quite frankly, more shocked and embarrassed than anything else. It must have been very obvious with his behavior the past few weeks, and now the flowers. Clearing his throat quietly, stepping closer, the blonde looked up at Sherlock.

"So… What about you, then? Are you… interested?"

Sherlock stared down at the shorter man in slight awe.

"What is it like in your mind? Are you hearing nothing but silence as you wait for me to spell it out?"

He shook his head, half turning away from the doctor once more. Obviously John was still in the denial stage of being attracted to him. Sherlock decided he would allow John to approach him next, when he was ready, but felt the need to make it crystal clear for the man in front of him.

"I return your physical and mental interest, John."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shook his head once more before taking a few steps toward the kitchen.

"Obviously."

John didn't know what to do with this information, and was almost sure he had to be dreaming. Pinching himself on the inner elbow discreetly, the doctor followed Sherlock to the kitchen, still hoping this wasn't some elaborate ruse. Content with the fact that he was awake, John reached out a hand and grabbed onto some loose fabric of the detective's shirt to keep him from going anywhere else.

"I just never thought you were, you know, interested in that bit of human nature."

The detective turned in to face John when the shorter man had grabbed his shirt. Staring down at the doctor, eyebrows slightly raised, he laughed quietly, shaking his head.

"I don't think you understand. I was never interested in anyone before you, so when I told you that I was married to my work, I meant it."

Sherlock shrugged, laying the bouquet down on the counter before leaning against the lower cabinets, still observing the man in front of him.

"Things change, although not often with myself."

John folded his arms, looking up at the detective with a bemused expression as his own thoughts rushed through his head. There was no sense denying the attraction between the two any longer, as it was heart-stoppingly obvious, now that the doctor thought about it. Smirking slightly as he stepped forward, John reached out hesitantly and brushed the detective's forearms with his fingertips.

"Were the flowers really that romantic?"

Sherlock had watched John come closer, looking down into those grey-blue eyes before John spoke. Snorting at the doctor's question, he rolled his eyes.

"Lavender, John? It's a sign of love and devotion. Obviously they were meant to be very romantic to any person who knows such symbolism in popular culture. I knew you had devotion, because for Gods' sakes you shot a cabbie on the first case we ever went on together. But love was the curious part, of course. Platonic love and romantic love are very much the same and yet very different."

Sherlock shrugged before looking down at John's fingertips grazing his skin. Sherlock hesitantly reached up and entwined one hand's fingers with the doctor's before letting their hands fall back in between the two of them. Chewing his bottom lip, Sherlock suddenly laughed quietly, shaking his head once more.

"You'll forgive me. I've no experience in the area of romance."

John gave a small nod, smiling in faint amusement.

"Well, I think I might be able to help in that area a little bit, if you wanted."

John gazed up at the brunette, feeling exposed and free all at the same time. His heart seemed to stutter quietly as Sherlock's eyes met his own in a somewhat heated gaze. Sherlock stared down at the man for a moment, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

"No, John, I don't want your romantic assistance. I only just admitted that you're the only person I've ever been romantically attracted to, ever."

The detective looked down at their hands entwined, slightly uncomfortable with the new sensations, but fascinated at the same time. He had never wanted to be close to anyone, let alone holding one's hand or kissing another person's lips. It was all very strange and new, but after a fleeting second of thought, welcome. He was willing to change for the man in front of him, to discover what it meant to show another that he loved them. With a small sigh, he raised his gaze slightly to meet John's own.

"I am willing to learn if you will show me, however... I do not think that I will be capable of expounding affection all of the time. It's just not... How I am. I would show you affection in my own way, not necessarily... This."

Sherlock gestured toward their entwined hands, hoping that John understood. It was just that Sherlock felt showing his love was spending time together and having long discussions, or sitting in the kitchen having tea in silence while John read the paper. He did not feel that he would be good at remembering to kiss John every day, or tell him that he loved him on a regular basis. Instead, he felt he would be much better at just showing the doctor through his every day actions.

"You speak as though this is news to me, Sherlock. I didn't want to have you in a relationship because I wanted to change who you are. I wanted you because you are this way, which probably sounds a bit mental."

The doctor grinned up at the other man playfully. Sherlock laughed quietly, nodding in agreement that John did sound mental. Who wanted to fall in love with a sociopath? Apparently John didn't mind too much, however, so he didn't comment.

"I'm going to come out and ask, though. Can I kiss you?"

The detective sighed quietly as John proposed a kiss, before smirking.

"You don't have to ask, you know. But if you can reach up here on your tiptoes, I suppose I can allow a kiss or two."

John scowled in response, tugging on Sherlock's collar to bring him down to his level and pressed their lips together firmly. His hands moved from his collar to rest on his chest, fingers hanging onto the fabric so he wouldn't separate from the detective even for an instant. As the doctor's lips had met his own, Sherlock smiled slightly, sliding his arms around John's waist and bringing him closer. He couldn't help but revel in the flavors and textures of John's lips: slightly rough, tasting faintly of tap water with a just-barely-there sweetness that was just John. When the doctor pulled away, Sherlock's eyes opened in surprise.

"Sorry. I've been holding that in for a bit."

Gazing down at the smaller man, Sherlock smirked and leaned down to let his own lips just barely brush John's as he whispered against them.

"I know the feeling."


End file.
